


Ghost Protocol

by sfiddy



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Early Relationship, F/M, Gen, Phil finally ran, and basically did sad things, going dark, hints of Skoulson, mild romance, soul searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some would say he was haunted by his past.  Coulson knew that was bull.  You don’t get to be haunted when you are the ghost.</p><p>Phil breaks and runs.  Loads of soul searching and wandering commence until he has to call in.  Of course, who is his retriever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> Between work and home, this took me 3 months to write, and I'm worried it's fragmented garbage, but it's Skoulson-y and a bit underwater, so why not?

His thumb hovered over the send button on his phone. The past months had demonstrated his problems with impulse control, so this moment of hesitation is puzzling.

It’s a question of caution versus avoidance, and which he’s going to go with. That’s what he’ll tell himself today, because, as his friend Andrew would say --or would have said-- he hasn’t worked through all the issues yet. If he stays here, he won’t.

The phone’s screen had gone dark again. He snorted at the irony as he settled his bag into Lola’s tiny trunk. There was no question that Lola was going on this trip with him, even setting aside the fact that she was, in fact, his. That didn't stop it from feeling funny when he'd opened the reinforced doors of the mechanic's bay of the bunker and pulled out, timing his exit to give mere inches of leeway on either side of the chrome finish.

It was a dramatic gesture. He'd been all about those lately, so sue him. What was one more? He did draw the line at hard acceleration—as satisfying as it might be to leave a cloud in your wake, you don’t abuse high performance tires without a good reason.

Two miles out from the doors, he pulled the phone from his pocket and pressed a button to bring the screen back into squint-inducing life. The word was still waiting on the prompt line, cursor blinking in patient expectation. This was happening, and it was happening now. He sent the one word message and quickly cleared the screens, dumped the active apps, and shut the phone down. Satellites pinged and relayed. 

Two miles and a few dozen meters away from where Lola idled, a single phone chirped a text alert. In the same tiny gap of time, a half dozen monitors alerted, and both Director Coulson and his phone’s screen went dark.

...

He didn't get far the first day. On no less than three occasions he'd sighed, exited the freeway, and turned around, backtracking for at least twenty miles before turning around again. 

When the sun went down, he pulled into a promising looking motel, and by promising he meant of course that there would be no questions and no bedbugs. A terrible looking diner nestled in the space where a pool once might have been, so after his bag was settled in the room he crossed the parking lot, sat alone at the bar and ordered.

The diner hummed with activity, dizzying in its low-grade chaos and the in-out flow from the kitchen door.

There's a good chance that no one in the diner is armed. He couldn't quite manage going without, and can feel the gun in its tight profile holster tucked against his ribcage. Not sure he can ever go out without being armed ever again. Dozens of soft bodies, vulnerable to everything from bezerker staffs, pulse blasts, mind controlling cubes, deadly crystals, actual demi gods, and brainwashed people with razor blade hands or cyborg legs.

He looked down at his own hand and tugs his cuff down. The waitress set down his order and looked at his gloved hand curiously.

Coulson shrugged. “Poison ivy.”

She made a noise of sympathy as she set his plate down, dropping his check next to him. It’s that kind of diner—no one stays long.  
The food was as disappointing as the company. He pays and leaves a nice tip—big enough to make her smile, but not so big that he is remembered. Wasn’t that the best he could hope for?

For fifty bucks, the guy at the desk sold him half a bottle of Johnny Walker and even threw in a newish plastic cup. Coulson returned to the room with every intention of downing it, but couldn’t bring himself to drink more than a few fingers worth, which is also pretty puzzling.

He’s never hesitated to drink alone before, and has been known to put sizable dents in his own office stash to the comforting hiss of analog. It was astonishing the amount of actual work he could accomplish after his third drink, when he no longer minded the paperwork as much. Then the underlying boredom blended with the buzzing in his ears and head.

But that was a lie, wasn’t it, that he was drinking alone then? Deluded and desperate maybe, but not alone. Already tonight he’d stopped himself from calling out for status reports from operatives that weren’t there. No piece in his ear, no tiny mic in his collar. Silence.

Coulson shoved the pillows against the headboard and sat back. He needed sleep, but before he could sleep, he needed to unwind. He could sleep anywhere so long as he could focus for a few minutes. He thought about the wretched pot roast and frankly appalling salad at the diner, the long drive that brought him here, and the accommodating front desk staff. Leaned back and wondered vaguely about the housekeeping staff.

Lola would need gas, and his next stop needed to be one of his old dead drops. He had the one unsecured credit card, but cash was king and most places were friendlier when they saw green. Better food had to be a consideration, and maybe a nice walk. It wouldn’t do to go soft. After half an hour, he gave his shoulders an experimental roll to see if he was loosening up. The verdict is a decided no. His neck is still tight from the drive and his back is a series of knots. Trying to relax here was an uphill battle—the temperature was wrong, there was almost no airflow, and he missed the deep, constant hum of powerful generators. Like a child without his special blanket at bedtime. Too quiet, too alone, and too cold.

He wondered how fugitives did it-- being on the run.

With effort, he managed to recall his old training, letting his mind meander enough to lightly drift. It’s not a deep sleep, not the sleep he needs, but it’s enough to let him face the next day. Any more would be asking too much.

…

Dawn tore his eyes open. He’d forgotten to close the heavy drapes, so the room was cold and damp. Heavy condensation on the window dripped down onto the ineffective heating unit. Coulson gave the thing a light kick and it rattled to life, coughing dusty hot air into the room. He sighed and took a shower.

Today he’d head South. There was a bus station in DC where he maintained a locker with a go-bag. A closet storage unit in Roanoke (one of several) had more clothes and supplies. When he left the ratty hotel, he spared a glance backwards, wondering if he’d ever go back.

…

Bus stations have cameras. He pays a guy to fetch his bag, then gives him the rest of the Johnny Walker when he returns the black gym bag unmolested.

…

Storage units are more discrete if you’re willing to shop around. Besides, this is the DC area— people know when not to ask questions. Pay the owner five years advance in cash and he’ll forget you and never open the thing. Coulson sifts through the clothes he’s stored and makes his picks, leaves his suit there, snags some papers and slides cash into his wallet.

Winter’s early afternoon light is harsh without leaves to filter it. If he wants to head away from this area, he needs to get moving soon.

…

In the overwintering fields of Northern Illinois he found a diner that steals his heart. The menu is a mile long, and the waitress delivers a cup of potato soup while he waits, flipping through quirky travel pamphlets he picked up on the way in. His mother would have liked it.

He stays in small towns and hovers at the edge of main streets, avoiding areas that might have too many traffic cameras or surveillance. He’s not being paranoid, he’s just dark for the moment. As long as Lola’s engine starts every day, sending a ping that just confirms that he’s alive, no one will bother him.

After a fortnight, he gets the first pang. Not for Wisconsin-- he doesn’t miss cheese curds and football that much. And it’s not that he really wants to sit behind a desk again yet, but…

While walking through a charming farmer’s market in a heated greenhouse somewhere in Nevada, he feels a tingle race up his spine as he glances up from a table of chard. A fraying flannel shirt with long curls of brown hair spilling down the back.

It’s not her, of course, he’s not stupid. But his heart pounded for an hour after just the same.

…

On base, Coulson dutifully charged his phone every night, despite the extended battery life. It was a habit -tic- born, like all of his habits, as a result of utility. It was always possible they would get alerted to an emergency in the small hours and be gone for more than a week. All the extra toys and tools in those phones ate a lot of battery, so they needed a full charge before heading out.

This hotel room was done in gray and red, a refreshing change from beiges and overwashed pastels. There was a modern feel that was just familiar enough to… to what? To relax? Maybe, but it was deeper than that. To reflect. He hadn’t done as much of that as he should, but then again, that’s what this was about. He was cleaning the slate.

He stared at the tiny plug, the lifeline between his hand and the rest of the world. So strange that something so rudimentary was also so necessary, but that’s how everything was, wasn’t it? Eventually everything needed sunlight and water.

For six weeks he’s avoided even looking at his phone, and it’s not lost on him that he’s begun bothering with it. Since the incident (that’s what he calls it in his head) at the greenhouse, he’s ‘seen’ other members of his team. Not-Hunter turned out to be a cyclist training for a one-thousand mile ride; Not-Mack was a pee-wee football coach picking up lunch for his team; Not-Simmons was a girl in the library surreptitiously sipping tea next to her references.

Were these _their_ alternate realities? Could they all have been these things if it had not been for SHIELD? Would Fitz have been running a custom computer and home security company and Bobbi running a rehab facility for guide dogs? Had SHIELD not weaponized them all, would they have been normal people?

What did that say about him, wandering aimlessly through the country? Had SHIELD not come calling, would he be this anchorless? Creeping after invented memories and painting in their backgrounds? Would he be forcing himself to face his reflection as brutally as he was?

Some would say he was haunted by his past. Coulson knew that was bull. You don’t get to be haunted when you are the ghost.

The phone was heavy in his hand, weighed down by more than after-market tech. Coulson ran his thumb over the edge, tracing the outline of the power button, then jammed the power cord into place and tossed it to the other side of the bed to charge.

…

It’s a little bit mad, this need to see things. He’s gone so long without seeing anything normal that even the mundane has taken on a tinge of unreal. Coulson found the travel pamphlets in a neglected pocket on his go bag and picked one at random.

That’s how he ended up in front of the largest ball of twine. And the largest ball of dried paint, the biggest Lego sculpture in the country, and the largest cast iron pan, too.

It was a delight, seeing the ridiculous obsessions of average people, strolling around these little towns, and somehow he didn’t feel odd about his card collections, vintage spyware, and the custom everything car. It helped that he was by no means going to attract attention in these weird tourist traps.

He stayed a second day in the town with the biggest cherry pie. He couldn’t say no to good pie.

...

The longest Coulson has ever chased a hot trail was two months and a handful of hours. The fugitive was enhanced, needing only a few hours of sleep to fully recuperate, and was a hell of a lock picker. Even so, it took a lot of energy to stay moving that long, and at some point, most people really just want to sit down and do nothing much. Usually with someone else. That was where they caught up to the subject, watching a Law and Order marathon with a bowl of nachos and his best friend from high school.

Coulson let the poor bastard finish the episode.

Coulson himself made the two month mark. It may not be a fair comparison (he wasn’t actually being chased) but the fugitive wasn’t suffering from the hangover of portal travel across the galaxy or any of his other baggage. He figured it made for an even shake, as far as these things went.

A storage unit outside of Las Vegas was one of his go-to cash hoards, and a stop earlier in the week enabled him to stay at nicer bed and breakfast stops, coordinating his nights so they looked like a skipping stone across a map. He was driving less every day, preferring a slower pace and lingering in places.

Dangerous. He was getting tired.

His room was comfortable with a kitschy Western theme. Horse blankets thrown over leather chairs and that sort of thing, but with all modern amenities that extended beyond indoor plumbing and electricity. They had down comforters, excellent broadband reception for several carriers and free WiFi.

Coulson was tired. Tired enough that he didn’t want to sleep in this strange fluffy bed with the printed patterns in sunset colors. Tired enough that he didn’t even want to bother with his bag or the handful of minibar offerings or the mock-antique radio.

Aching from fatigue and the waves that were finally breaking against the rocks in his skull, Coulson plugged in his charger and connected his phone. It took a few deep breaths, but he pressed the power button and waited for the light to blink, then laid back on the bed with the phone resting on his chest.

Deep breaths.

In less than two minutes, he received a text.

_Boo._

His eyes grew hot as he tapped a reply.

Hi.

Barely a moment passed.

_Take a nap. I’ll be there before you wake up._

Phil Coulson let the phone fall back on his chest and wiped the catharsis from his eyes. Now he could let his mind wander again, begin to sort the harvests of the last few months. Wheat and chaff. Too big a task for now, but soon it would be manageable.

His fugitive had taught him that you could only run for so long before you needed rest. You could only be alone for so long before you broke.

Coulson’s eyelids grew heavy and he let his arms and legs drift. He could finally let himself fall apart a little, because soon he’d be put back together.

…

It was dark when a change in the room woke him up. There were only two possibilities, and the fact that he wasn’t dead yet left just the one. He didn’t even need to open his eyes.

“You’re here,” he said. His voice was gravelly from sleep and disuse.

Soft rustling from a few feet away. "I said I was coming.”

Coulson rolled onto his stomach and groaned. The weeks were catching up to him fast as relief spread over and through him like a warm blanket. The sound of a glass tapping down on the nightstand in the quiet room sent sparks across his skin and he turned his head toward the sound.

Cool fingers stroked over the side of his face and traced over his ear as her weight joined him on the bed. Coulson hugged the pillow under his head harder. He opened one eye, just a quick experiment to be sure it was all real. Wasn’t sure what the relief was, though. It wasn’t just the last few months, or year. It was the last three years. Ten years. When had things gone off the rails?

And there was Daisy-- beautiful, strong, golden, and tired. Coulson braced himself for the coming interrogation. What was he thinking, how could he have been compromised, exposed, or tracked? Did he have any idea how busy they’ve been, how much they’ve needed him, as fragmented and inconsequential as he was at the moment? How many old standing protocols had he broken to create this special loophole for himself?

Daisy rolled onto her side to face him, strands of wispy waves floating on a white pillowcase, and took a breath, drawing her eyebrows together. Coulson felt his muscles actually tighten, waiting for the attack he deserved.

She licked her lips. “Michigan?”

He stopped breathing for a moment. “What?” Maybe he was still asleep.

“I didn’t sleep for two days. You were stopped in Michigan and didn’t start Lola for two days. Why?”

Coulson can feel the tension rush out of him. With a chuckle, his shoulders go slack again. His answer was muffled by the pillow and rumbling laughter.

“What? Coulson, I can’t hear you, you big goof.”

He picked his head up, knowing his smile must be ridiculous. “Pie. They had great pie. I liked it so much I stayed a second day.”

Daisy smiled lopsidedly. “You would.” Her eyes scanned him clinically. “Any injuries? I’ve got a med kit if you need it?”

“Nope. No injuries.”

“Any… high risk behavior we need to address?” Her tone was carefully neutral.

Coulson smiled softly. “I may have eaten too much pie.”

Crinkles around her eyes. “Extra training for you, then.” The humor in Daisy’s face evaporated like fog off Lola’s windshield. “That is, if…”

He let his head sink into the pillow. “’If’ is a really big word.”

“Yeah, it is.” Daisy pushed down a corner of the pillow. “But ‘if’ is where we live. ‘If’ is the possible and the edge of everything.” She leaned forward, almost touching her nose to his. “’If’ is where we live.”

Phil gazed back into the comfortable warmth of Daisy’s eyes. “It’s lonely where we live.”

“Sometimes,” Daisy said. “Sometimes it’s lonely and cold and it can really, really suck.” She leaned back a little and cupped his cheek in her hand. “But you know what’s great about it?”

Phil had an idea where she as going with all this—this great speech Daisy’s delivering that sounds a little rehearsed, but not so much that she doesn’t believe it anymore.

“Enlighten me.”

The corner of her mouth twitched and, as if it were completely normal, she scooted closer and curled into Coulson, tucking herself against him and settling her head under his chin. “You’re not alone.”

Her soft hair caught in his stubble. He didn’t push it away.

Not alone. He’d thought it so many times, used it in speeches, and reminded others of the very same thing. Heard it a few times himself but usually just to keep him going. Sometimes it even sounded real, like when it came from May.

But from Daisy, who understood the shape and taste of alone and how it got under your skin and into your bones, it was more than words.

Her breathing was soft, a faint rhythmic press in time with her inhales. If she could find home in the space that was if…

Coulson rolled away just enough to free his arm to brush her hair away from his face and smooth it. “You once asked me if I ever wanted to run away.”

Daisy looked up at him, completely at ease with his hand in her hair. “Yeah, I remember. How was it?”

He tucked his hand up under the pillow, mirroring her position. “Better than Tahiti. Not as good as I hoped.”

She smiled. Something inside him went liquid and warm.

Not as good as he’d hoped, but it was already better. He wasn’t officially back yet, wouldn’t be until he set foot inside SHIELD property, and Lola was still absolutely his no matter how much tech was in her.

Coulson felt his face warm. The idea had come so suddenly, but he couldn’t ignore it. He was absolutely certain she could feel the change in him, probably could have even without her powers.

Daisy’s brow wrinkled. “What is it?”

“How… how much time did you allocate to this trip?”

She shrugged. “Flexible. I just need to be back in forty eight hours.”

With a grin, Coulson propped his head on his fists. “How do you feel about Michigan?”

“Pie?” Daisy wrapped her arm under her pillow rested her cheek in her palm. “What kind?”

“Every kind.”

She tilted her head. “Can you get me back in forty eight hours?”

“I’ll set Lola to automatic.”

With a mischievous smile Phil knew was going to be trouble, Daisy reached for her phone and started typing. She turned it so he could see her message. “Care to do the honors?”

Phil took the phone and pressed the send button.

Daisy took it back and quickly turned it off with a wink. “Boo!”

A few hours later, after they’d showered and dressed, they buckled themselves into Lola, effervescent with the idea of an adventure just for them.

Daisy started the engine and laughed. “You know, if I knew this was so much fun, I would have done it sooner.”

Phil, long tired of driving, settled into the passenger seat. “It wasn’t.” He swallowed hard. “At least, not till today.”

Moments passed before Daisy reached for the shift. Phil could feel it, that weight between them. It wasn’t a bad thing, really, just unfinished and unsaid, not ready. Needed to be ready soon. No one knew what this life could bring.

Daisy cleared her throat, breaking the silence. “So, got some directions for me?”

With a swipe, Phil fired up Lola’s navigation. “There’s two places. One has every pie you would ever want to eat, and the other has the best apple and cherry.” He hesitated. Typed in one more.

She brought Lola smoothly to the driveway of the bed and breakfast. “What’s that one?”

The driveway, decision time. Phil smiled as he input the command.

Daisy’s soft shag whipped in the morning sun, throwing strands across her face. Patient, curious. Watching him watch her.

“How do you feel about twine? Specifically, the largest ball of twine in the world?”

The car slid back into park. Daisy set the brake and sat sideways on the bench seat to face him. “Phil, I’d go dark to see a bad movie with you.”

He chuckled nervously. “I’ll remember that the next time Nick Cage does a movie.”

Daisy laughed as she pulled onto the highway. “Oh, ugh. A girl has to draw a line somewhere.”

Phil licked his suddenly dry lips. No more hesitation. “But pie and a giant ball of twine are okay?”

Pressure on his prosthetic. Phil glanced down and saw Daisy’s hand over his. “Pie and giant ball of twine are definitely okay.”

A quick glance, one of the ones that sparked hot and unreal in his wrecked heart, and Daisy’s hand returned to the shifter. Lola surged, revving deep and vital as they sped North on the highway under the control of his lifeline. Oh yes, he could be ready soon. But they could be ghosts together first.


End file.
